She sat at the wooden kitchen table, an angular shaft of light streaming in from the window, parting the shadows away from her face. She sat contentedly and listened to the merry refrain of the birds outside waking up for the day. The teapot slowly stirred into life on the stove and her hands moved in calm and thoughtful motions as she worked her needle through her fabric. She basked in the therapeutic quality of the quiet and made an extra measure to enjoy it. The teapot whirred insistently and she put down the needle and poplin, smoothing her hands over her skirt. She stood. Pouring out the hot water, she watched as it infused with her tea, creating patterns at the bottom of the cup. Warming her hands around the mug, she leaned in the frame of the door, looking out onto the morning, letting the sun soak through and the stillness move through her.